


Through the Gloaming

by Evandar



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, M/M, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before they reach Mirkwood, a strange mist from the Mountains brings the Company of Thorin Oakenshield into contact with a strange future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Gloaming

**…Gloin…**  
  
They see them before they hear them, even through the mist. The swirling white blanket that descended from the mountains has deadened all sound, and Gloin wonders if this is what it’s like to be his brother. Sharp-eyed Kili spots them first: the dim shape of a horse picking slowly across the treacherous ground, its rider faintly illuminated by a queer glow.  
  
It is an elf. They are the only race in Middle Earth to shine so, and the revelation groups them closer together and has Gloin reaching for his axe. But the horse passes them without stopping, and through the gloom, Gloin spies a smaller figure – darker – clinging to the elf’s back.  
  
…  
  
The mist is gone by the following morning, but the memories of it linger in all their minds and they set off warily into the cold morning. The grass beneath their feet is sodden with dew and Bifur slips occasionally – Bombur reaching out to steady him each time.   
  
They are not far from their camp when, again, Kili spots the horse. It is a fine steed of pale grey colouring, with a mane and tail the colour of shale, and it grazes peacefully in the weak sunlight. As they approach, they see it has not strayed far from its riders. A dwarf sits with his back against a tree, with packs by his feet and an elf’s head in his lap. The axe propped next to him is startlingly familiar, and Gloin grips his tighter for even from this distance, he can see that they are identical.  
  
It is Thorin who hails him, and the dwarf nudges the elf awake before he stands. He is straight-backed and proud, with long hair and an impressive beard, braided in an unfamiliar way. But Gloin knows that face – though it is different from how he remembers it – just as well as he knows the axe that still leans against the tree. His hand grips the locket he wears tight enough for it to cut into his palm, for this dwarf is Gimli…and he is utterly impossible.  
  
The son he left behind in the Blue Mountains is a temperamental child, barely into his first stubble, and full of dreams of wild adventures. He had begged and pleaded with Gloin to accompany him on this quest, but Gloin had refused him. Now, it seems, Gimli has found his own way to join them, though something has happened to him to forge steel in his spine and make him comfortable in the presence of an elf.  
  
An elf who is looking at them with curiosity in his eyes and no small amount of confusion. Gloin meets the blue gaze frankly, and it is the elf who turns away first, ostensibly to brush wet grass from its tunic.  
  
“I would ask your name,” Thorin is saying, and there is raw fury behind each of his words.   
  
Gimli lifts his chin. “I would ask who demands it,” he says, and his voice is deep as Khazad-dum and just as proud. Regardless of the strange company he keeps, Gloin feels his heart swell with pride to see his son like this – a dwarf of many journeys, a dwarf how he should be.  
  
“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thor, and King Under the Mountain,” Thorin snarls, and beneath his beard, Gloin sees his son’s face go pale. By his side the elf looks up sharply, and with an expression of such disbelief that Gloin finds it difficult not to laugh. But then the elf is searching their Company once more, and Gimli is doing the same, and Gloin sees the exact moment that they take Thorin seriously.  
  
They spot the burglar.  
  
“Gimli, meleth nin…”  
  
“Aye, laddie, I know.” Then Gimli takes a deep breath, fixes his gaze on Thorin, but before he can speak, Kili interrupts.  
  
“Gimli!”  
  
Of course, he would be the next to recognise him. Kili was the single worst influence on his son (and his closest friend) when it came to his adventurous nature. There wasn’t much of a difference in age between them – something Gimli had fair yelled about when Gloin had told him ‘no’ – and they were distant kin.  
  
Kili’s cry spawns other noises of recognition. First from Fili and Oin, then Balin and Dwalin and Thorin himself – though the King shoots Gloin an angry look.  
  
“How is this possible?” Kili asks.  
  
“That, my friend, I cannot tell you,” Gimli says. His voice is soft, and there is pain in his eyes when he looks upon his dearest friend, and Gloin aches to comfort him. He stays his hand because the dwarf before him is no longer his little boy, and the elf does it for him – long white fingers resting briefly on a broad, mail-clad shoulder.  
  
There are dwarven love-braids in the elf’s hair. Gloin tries not to look at them.  
  
“Should Gandalf not be with you?” Gimli asks, changing the subject.  
  
It is the elf that answers, before any of them can. “Nay, Gimli, he has journeyed south already. T’would seem our journeys are yet tied with…” his gaze turned once more to the hobbit –“that.”  
  
Gloin bristles – and he is not the only one – but the look on his son’s face brings his growing anger to a shuddering halt. Never has he seen Gimli look so weary.   
  
“Aye,” his son says, and there is nothing Gloin would not give to never hear such sorrow in Gimli’s voice again.  
  
…  
  
And so it is that they have an elven guide through the forest. He leads the way into the cloying, humid dark and does not falter even for a moment. The horse he turned loose, sent on its way to Beorn, who would take care of it. He measures his light steps so that Gimli may walk at his side despite his shorter legs, and every so often he shows them what plants are safe to eat. He carries his bow strung – a fine weapon he has seen Kili eye with interest – and Gloin knows that the elf will defend them if he needs to.  
  
He shines in the darkness; his very skin shimmering like starlight. He is strange and long-limbed and achingly fair as all his kin are, and Gloin can see how his son might love him – the elf is less haughty than those of Rivendell, and treats them with kindness despite the enmity between their races and Thorin’s obvious hostility.  
  
Gloin knows that the kindness is because of his son; knows that this elf is his son’s one love; knows that there are traditions he must follow now that the elf is a member of his family – ai, Gimli, were you thinking at all? – but he does not know if he can follow them before his King, who so despises elves, and his kin. But the braids are there for all to see, woven proudly into tresses the colour of pale gold, and Gimli does not seem at all bothered that his choice is so unusual.  
  
He is more sure of himself than the boy Gloin left behind (for good reason), far more sure. His confidence is as a wall around him.  
  
It is good that he has it, for Gloin can feel himself beginning to falter under some of the looks he is receiving. Even Oin is displeased with him, though Gloin fails to see how his son’s choice could possibly be his fault.  
  
“Do not rest against the trees,” the elf warns when they settle for the night (though how anyone can tell it is night is beyond him). “They are wary.”  
  
“You speak as though they’re people,” Kili says.  
  
The elf gives him a queer smile, and says nothing. Gimli snorts. “He’s a wood-elf,” he says by way of explanation, but there is more to it than that. Far more. Gloin isn’t sure he wants to know how much because the elf laughs lightly at Gimli’s poor exposition, and his pale hand once more rests briefly on his shoulder.  
  
Thorin’s expression tightens, and Gimli glares at him even as the elf lets his hand fall.  
  
No, Gloin is sure he does not want to know what has given his awkward little son the strength to stand before a King and glare.  
  
 **…Fili…**  
  
He watches the elf work tiny braids into Gimli’s beard, illuminated only by the light of his own fair skin. He can hear him humming something sad and unfamiliar, though the occasional word slips past his lips and into the night. He is an enemy – or so his uncle has said – but he is a much more pleasant sight than the glowing eyes that peer at them through the trees.  
  
“What are they?” he asks softly, knowing that the elf’s sharp-pointed ears will hear him.  
  
“Raccoons,” the elf replies. “Foxes, scavengers. Take comfort in them, master dwarf. It is in their absence that you must truly fear.”  
  
“Why?” Fili asks.  
  
The elf finally lifts his gaze from his delicate braid-work, and his eyes are hard and cold with hatred. But it is not, Fili thinks, directed at him. The elf’s next words confirm it for he spits them with a fury as deadly as a blizzard in the mountains. “Spiders. They flee the spiders.”  
  
He averts his gaze once more, and Fili sees his expression soften to something he doesn’t want to name. Not because it sickens him, but, well, it’s more than a little strange, is it not? That an elf can look upon the face of a dwarf with such naked admiration and wear his braids in his hair (it’s no mystery to anyone who put them there) is baffling. That Gimli is the one to inspire it is more-so. His brother’s friend is an odd one: eager to please and hungry for adventure, but shy and uncertain of his own worth. At least, he was. This figure that Kili swears is Gimli (and judging from Gloin’s reaction, his brother is right) is a far cry from that.  
  
A far enough cry that he has an elf braiding his beard in the gloaming.  
  
“What is he like?” he asks.  
  
“Ah?”  
  
“Gimli,” Fili says. He feels awkward, as though he is asking something he shouldn’t, but this is something he must know. “You love him, clearly, but how do you find him?”  
  
“Stubborn,” the elf says. “Belligerent, playful, moody, poetic, noble, powerful, and kind. It was his kindness as drew me first, if that is what you wish to know, though I had already proof of his skill as a warrior then. And though he was not at first kind to me, seeing it in him made me fond.”  
  
Oh. It’s a good enough reason, Fili thinks, if reason can at all be applied to the heart.  
  
“I imagine it must be strange,” the elf continues, “last seeing him as a child and seeing him as he is now.”  
  
“It is,” Fili admits, glad that the elf is not as ignorant to their plight as he had appeared to be. “Though I would imagine it is stranger for him, seeing us all so young again. Tell me, master elf, why is it he looks at us with such sadness?”  
  
Why he could barely bring himself to look at them at all.  
  
The elf winces. “That I dare not say,” he says quietly.  
  
Fili snorts and goes back to his watch, wondering what the elf feels he must keep secret. It is not as though they are going to die – Thorin will protect them.  
  
…  
  
Gimli chuckles when he wakes to find his beard so elaborately braided by nimble, elvish hands, and he claps his hand to the elf’s shoulder in a warm and familiar gesture. Truly, he is more comfortable with the elf than Fili has seen him be with anyone – even, of late, his own parents. (Gimli makes for a tempestuous sixy-year-old.) It is heart-warming to see, for though Gimli has never been as close to Fili as he is to Kili, he is still dear to him, cousins as they are.  
  
Thorin, however, does not share Fili’s thoughts.  
  
“That is enough,” he snarls. “Or have you forgotten that the elves of this wood betrayed our kin?”  
  
Gimli’s expression darkens, and Fili shivers. That is a look that would put Dwalin to shame. “Legolas is not Thranduil, Thorin, and you would do well to remember it.”  
  
Legolas. That is the elf’s name. He had quite overlooked it the previous day, and it had seemed too impolite (even for him) to ask last night.  
  
“The reason for the betrayal you speak of, Thorin Oakenshield, is a simple one,” Legolas says. He stands slowly, and rests his hand upon Gimli’s shoulder as he seems to do so often. They stand together, and despite all the differences between them, they look like they belong that way.  
  
“It was revenge, in his eyes. Thranduil-king hails from Doriath, and dwarves caused him much grief – they slew his mother before him. Those dwarves were not your people, but what difference does it make when dwarves are dwarves and elves are elves, and blood begets blood until the ground is soaked with it?”  
  
Even Gimli seems surprised by those words. “You never told me that,” he says, peering up at the elf’s face.  
  
Legolas shrugs. “I did not see a continuation of the cycle as worth it,” he says. “Nor did I meet any of my grandparents, and so I do not feel as though I have the right to demand recompense for them. You are not one of those dwarves, and Doriath fell long before my birth. Seeking revenge for a place I have never known – a woman I never met – is meaningless, and would only breed more sorrow.”  
  
He says this last while looking at Thorin rather than Gimli, and there is a wealth of emotions in his blue gaze – so much so, his uncle looks away first.  
  
“As Gimli said, I am not my father,” Legolas says finally. “As such, we must make haste and try our hardest to avoid any detection. He holds no love for any of your race, and I am meant to be on the other side of the forest.”  
  
He steps away into the trees, then, and they scramble to follow his light steps. Gimli shoots Thorin one last hostile look before he turns away, and Fili hears Gloin huff softly. But the elf is not haughty for long. Whatever words pass between him and Gimli are too low for any of them to hear, but soon the elf’s steps slow enough for them to walk comfortably in his wake, and the humid air fills with the sound of elven singing. He has a fair voice, and his song is merry enough. Fili hears Kili humming along softly when the melody repeats itself, and he flashes his brother a quick grin.  
  
He doesn’t know if Kili has noticed Gimli’s reserve yet, when it comes to them. He hopes he hasn’t.  
  
…  
  
They are on the other side of the forest, camped by the shores of Esgaroth when a thick mist rises from the water and sweeps onto the shore, blanketing them with white. Fili reaches instinctively for his brother, and relaxes when Kili’s fingers curl around his own. He stares blindly into the curling white, waiting for something he doesn’t know.   
  
Dimly he realises that the light that shines from the elf’s skin is starting to fade. He cries out, and he hears the Company awake around him, but there is no response from the elf. Nor from Gimli, who had settled close to his side when they’d laid down their bed-rolls.   
  
He knows they are gone long before the mist clears and he can see it. Their absence leaves a strange ache in his heart – in all their hearts – for they have glimpsed a future they cannot understand. Nor, Fili thinks, would they ever wish to: whatever can bring an elf and a dwarf together in such a manner must be a strange and terrible thing indeed.  
  
(And the fear and the weariness with which they had looked at Bilbo settles like lead in their stomachs as they leave Mirkwood behind them and turn north to the Mountain.)


End file.
